


follow the music (go where it takes you)

by narcissism



Category: The 100
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, and trustfund baby!clarke, basically punk!lexa, i'm sorry i'm trash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2018-03-21 21:22:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3705173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narcissism/pseuds/narcissism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Security sounds a lot like Nirvana to Lexa. She's secure in her life, running her own little rundown record shop and backseat commanding a local gang. She'll wear her leather jacket and blast Kurt Cobain when she wants. But Upper East Side princess Clarke Griffin sweeps into her life with a trust fund larger than life and the music of bells chiming behind her and suddenly, nothing is as secure as she once thought it was.</p><p>( or: a trashy punk au where I get to put Clarke into Lexa's leather jacket and give Lexa reason to wear eyeliner, black clothing, and rev a motorcycle everywhere. )</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. and for this gift i feel blessed

The bell jingles as the door eases open, and Lexa tears her eyes away from the records in front of her. She hears footsteps and suddenly, the shop springs to life. The blinds, half-closed, swing and clank against the glass door, and the movement sends the dust motes into a frenzy. The floorboards creak to life, and sunlight pours in through the cracks of the blinds and the still open door.

 She leans to the left to try and catch a glimpse of the person who breathed life back into her store. She sees pink and white, foreign in its brightness, as it darts around the shelves before coming to a stop in front of her.

 Lexa can only blink at the girl. This one girl is probably the last person Lexa would expect to see in her grungy little record shop- she’s bright colors against monochrome walls, pastel pink sweater and golden hair, and most definitely not someone who frequents these types of shops, judging by the bemused expression on the girl’s face.

 “Can I help you with something?” Lexa manages.

 “Actually yes,” the girl says, somewhat sheepishly. “I’m trying to find a gift for one of my friends.”

 “Anything in particular? Do you know of any band or singer your friend particularly likes?” She asks, quirking her eyebrows up. (There were at least thousands of records in the store- “a gift” was not something easily found.)

 “Yeah- um, I have a list of the bands she likes- could you just hold on for a second?” The girl fumbles around with her purse, cheeks starting to go pink. She rifles through the bag for a second before making a small triumphant noise and handing over a small slip of paper. “Here- these are the ones she likes.” She purses her lips, worry spiking in her eyes. “Does that help at all?”

 Lexa nods once in confirmation, hands the slip back, and steps out from behind the counter. She strides over to the F-G section, and rifles through the records, mumbling the name of the band as she searches for it. She gingerly plucks the record out of the stack when she sees it, and turns back to her customer.

 “Here. I think this should work. Do you want me to ring it up?” She hands over the record, gently holding it out, watching carefully as the girl examines the front and the back.

 The girl nods slowly, and Lexa can’t help the slight smile that tugs at the corner of her mouth.

 “Thanks… Lexa,” the girl says slowly, eyes darting to the name tag currently pinned on her shirt. Lexa nods again and makes her way back behind the cash register, slightly self-conscious as the girl’s gaze sweeps over her and her simple black jeans and black shirt.

 The girl wets her lips and brings out a pen to scrawl something onto a piece of paper, blushing lightly when she finishes.

 She scans the record and bags it up, ignoring the slight flush on the girl’s face. She swaps the bag for a wad of bills, all twenties and tens, way more than the record costs. “This is more than you need to give me,” she starts, but is cut off by footsteps and a squeaky ‘keep the change’ as the girl dashes out of her shop.

 Lexa is more than just slightly confused, and just a touch offended at how quickly the girl left, but she shakes her head to clear her thoughts and starts sorting the money. A slip of paper falls out, and she bends to pick it up.

 It looks the same as the list she saw earlier, the same neat print. “Call me? x Clarke.” There’s a list of numbers at the bottom, and she realizes belatedly that the girl- Clarke’s given her phone number to her. She looks out the door almost fondly, even though Clarke is long gone by now. She smiles before remembering that her records don’t sell themselves.

 She puts her phone over it to avoid losing it, and doesn’t hear the telltale creaking of people entering her shop.

 “Someone’s in a good mood today.”

 “Shut up, Indra.”

 Nothing interesting happens for the rest of her shift (and by interesting she means no other pretty blonde girls give her their number), and she closes shop at 8. Lexa hastily shoves the slip of paper in the pocket of her leather jacket and leaves through the back door to walk over to her motorcycle.

 She forgets about the paper for a little while, as she revs the engine and speeds out of the parking lot. It’s only when she’s back home that she remembers Clarke, with her pretty pink sweater and pretty blonde hair and pretty blue eyes.

 The paper feels like a thousand pounds in her pocket, and she brings it out to examine it again, as if she had just hallucinated the numbers earlier. She exhales a little easier when she sees the black numbers on the crumpled piece of paper.

 She doesn’t know if it’s anxiety or common sense that stops her from dialing the number. She swallows uncomfortably and drops the paper on her nightstand. Pretty girls like her aren’t interested in punks like herself. Except, well, her ex, but she doesn’t like to think about that anymore.

 It is a moment of weakness that overtakes her when she picks up the slip and plugs the numbers into her phone. She’s about to hit the green button to call when her roommate storms in angrily, slamming the door behind her.

 Lexa startles at the sound and locks her phone. Anya is usually more than graceful when she enters their house.

 “Did you see the paper?” She spits venomously. “Another UES preppy who thinks they’re better than all of us.” She shoves the paper into her hands. The cover shows a mugshot of a boy shaggy brown hair flopping around his face, and she makes to read the article when Anya starts ranting.

 “He says that the victim ran towards his car with the clear intention of harming him, and that he accidentally hit him in his fright and haste to get away. Never mind the bottle of whisky in his hand. It’s so _fucking_ obvious that daddy pulled some strings to get him out of this- how could they just let him go free?” Anya hisses.

 Lexa purses her lips and lays the paper down gently, as if it were a bomb. “Well? What do you want to do about it?” She asks slowly, carefully enunciating each word to avoid angering Anya more. “There’s not much we can do to retaliate. The security is too tight, and we could end up harming people other than the Collins.”

 Anya paces angrily. “Something. We can do something. Graffiti. Anonymous notes. Anything to make sure he never forgets this.” She shakes her head, leonine features sharpening even more.

 Lexa sighs. “I own a record store. What do you want me to do?”

 Anya pins her with a heavy stare. “Tell us what to do. Tell us how not to get caught.”

 She swallows and nods slowly. She doesn’t always condone this type of behavior, but it’s what Anya and her gang need- closure for the man they lost today- and she will not be one to deny them this right. She forgets about Clarke’s golden hair and oceanic eyes, and tucks the slip back into her leather jacket for another day and plans ways to get around the tight security in the Upper East Side.

 She stays up that night, nursing a mug of tea, and waits for Anya’s return. When her phone rings, she picks it up quickly and answers.

 “Hello?”

 “We lost two men. I’m coming home.”

 She hangs up before Lexa can say anything else, and she drops her phone on the couch in frustration. She waits for about 15 minutes, turning on the TV to drown out the unbearable ticking of her clock. Anya enters silently this time, key clicking softly and door swinging open silently. She stands up quickly and turns to face her.

 “How?” She grits out.

 “They fucked up,” Anya sighs. “They spray painted the door, but also decided it would be a good idea to break a window for extra measure.”

 Lexa exhales through her nose harshly.

 “The security shot them without warning. No doubt we’ll be hearing about thugs who beat on the police several times before they were subdued. Anything to cover up the ugly truth.”

She clenches her jaw and nods. “I’m going to bed. I still have to open up the shop tomorrow.”

 Anya doesn’t say anything, just sheds her jacket and slings it over the couch. Lexa pads over to her room.

 “Lexa?”

She turns to face Anya.

“We did it, we fucking did it.” Anya says, fierce, undiluted pride and satisfaction evident in her voice. She bares her teeth in some semblance of a smile, but anger still twists the edges of it. “That bastard won’t be able to do anything tomorrow without remembering how he murdered a man.”

 She coughs lightly and nods. “Good night, Anya.”

 She turns to face her room, but catches a glimpse of Anya settling into the couch, muted colors flashing across her face, now drained of all emotion.

 She doesn’t sleep well that night, and when she wakes up to take a shower, Anya’s still sitting in front of the TV. The morning news is on when she finishes braiding her hair, and she watches it silently while she drinks her coffee. The anchor drones on about the weather as she tosses on her leather jacket and pulls on her boots. She turns to leave, but hesitates at the door and sighs.

 “Go to sleep, Anya.”

 She opens the door and leaves only when she sees Anya dip her head in acknowledgement. She breaks all of the speed limits on her way to the store, willing the wind to whip away all of the guilt from last night. She should have warned them about making any sort of loud noise.

 The guilt threatens to suffocate her, so she throws herself into work instead, sorting box after box, combing through hundreds and hundreds of records. She cleans the windows, dusts off her counters, wipes down every nook and cranny of the store, stopping only to help customers as they come in.

 When she can’t think of anything else to do, she turns on the radio and listens idly as it drones on, static and a crackling voice filling the silence.

 “... Stirred up unrest with local gangs. Two thugs were caught vandalizing the Collins’ house, breaking in the windows with the intent of entering… Thankfully, police arrived on scene on time to apprehend the two. After the two pulled out guns, police officers responded in kind, firing and subduing the two. Police say-”

 Lexa turns off the radio angrily and checks the clock. It’s six, still several hours until closing. She reasons that no one else will be coming in for the night, and starts closing procedure. Soon enough, she finds herself, out in the cold, next to her motorcycle.

 She orders take-out and heads home for a (hopefully) quiet night. Anya’s off doing god-knows-what and she breathes in tiredly before throwing herself onto the couch. She watches television as she eats her admittedly shitty take-out, and amuses herself by thinking of ways to terrorize the police that had been lauded for their murder of her men.

 She checks her phone. No new notifications. 8:47 pm. Making a mental note to call Anya before 11, she looks over her phone once more, feeling like she was forgetting something. She huffs exasperatedly, remembering the number she so haphazardly shoved into the pocket of her jacket. No more angry roommates. No more distractions at the store. Respectable amount of time after receiving the number. The conditions are perfect, she thinks to herself.

 She takes a deep breath before she dials the number. Just as Lexa gives up hope that Clarke will pick up, the shrill ringing tone stops and a familiar voice answers breathlessly.

 “Hello? Who is this?”

 Lexa clears her throat and swallows a little nervously. “Hey Clarke, it’s Lexa from the record shop.”

 She hears a sharp inhale on the other side,  and her cheeks flush a little in anticipation.

 “Lexa! Hey, sorry about how out of breath I am. I just got out of the shower- long day at the gym - and had to run to pick up my phone, and now I’m rambling and I’m really, really sorry, I just don’t really know how to stop-”

 She coughs into the crook of her arm because while pleasant, the image of Clarke panting in nothing but a towel isn’t something she needs when she’s trying to ask the girl out. “It’s- um- it’s okay. Don’t worry about it.” She responds awkwardly.

“It’s great to hear back from you, Lexa,” Clarke says warmly after a beat. She loves the way Clarke lingers on the A in her name, exhaling it, a little breathy and she thinks it sounds softer coming from Clarke. A little more like a prayer rather than a condemnation or a barked demand.

She smiles a little. “It’s nice talking to you too,” she says in return even though they’ve only been on the line for 40 seconds or something like that.

“Anyway,” she continues, heart beating a little faster in anticipation. “Would you like to grab dinner with me? Someday?”

She hears a charming chuckle from the other end. “I’d love to. How does Thursday at 7 sound?”

Lexa clears her throat and speaks a little louder. “That sounds perfect. I’ll pick you up then. Text me your address.”

 “I’ll see you on Thursday, Lexa. I can’t wait. Bye!” Her voice pitches up at the end, and Lexa can’t help the small smile that touches her lips.

“Bye,” she says to herself, smiling down at the screen of her phone. “See you then, Clarke.”

She drops her phone onto the carpet, kicks her combat boots off and burrows further into the couch, grinning. Thursday.

Her phone chimes.

 

From: Unknown number - 8:57 pm  
In case you were wondering, my friend loved the gift you picked out. x

 

Lexa’s grin only widens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't written in god knows how long and it's official, I'm #clexa trash. This au is literally just "bad" girl meets good girl and have I mentioned how much of a sucker I am for those-- 
> 
>  
> 
> (please talk to me at nxneteens.tumblr.com because i need friends, it's actually really sad)


	2. here we are now, entertain us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She wonders how easy it would be to drown in her.

Thursday just can't come soon enough.

Lexa bustles around her musty little shop, pretending to think about something other than her upcoming date and going through the motions of sorting. Anya shuffles around but never pokes her head up from the shelves to check on her. Customers come and go, but it's mostly uneventful. And by mostly uneventful, she means she finds a couple teenagers playing air guitars and rocking out to the music she's playing before they promptly knock half the records off of their shelves.

So far so good- just a normal day. Although she may or may not have kept texting Clarke when she should've been doing inventory.

She sneaks a glance at the clock and smothers a groan.

"Stop that."

Lexa startles from her station at the register and bumps her elbow on the counter. "Stop what?"

"Stop looking at your phone and the clock as if that will make time go faster," Anya replies, never looking up.

She clears her throat and returns to staring blankly at the register.

"Hot date tonight?"

Thursday seriously cannot come soon enough, she thinks to herself.

 

From: Clarke Griffin - 1:33 pm  
are you still working?

To: Clarke Griffin - 1:35 pm  
Yes, I am. Shouldn't you be working too?

 

"I'm going to take the sound of your text tone as a yes," Anya says.

 

From: Clarke Griffin - 1:36 pm  
it's summer, in case that's a foreign concept to you

To: Clarke Griffin - 1:37 pm  
Not all of us are students and can enjoy summer break, Clarke. Don't rub it into the working class' face.

From: Clarke Griffin - 1:37 pm  
:) sorry xx

 

"And it begins," Anya mutters from her corner.

"What?"

"That thing you do where you fall head over heels for some random chick and blow the rest of us off for her constantly." Anya teases, eyebrows raised.

"That does not- I don't do that." She sputters indignantly.

"Whatever. Do you want me to help you with your outfit tonight?"

"It's tomorrow, but I'd appreciate it if you would help me."

"It's tomorrow?" Anya finally looks up and fixes her with an incredulous look. "And you're worrying about it now?" She lets out a low whistle. "You've got it bad. Just how hot is this chick?"

Lexa shoots her a glare. "Do me a favor, Anya."

"What?"

"Shut up."

She huffs out a laugh but falls silent again.

 

To: Clarke Griffin - 1:40 pm  
That doesn't look like a very sincere apology, but I'll take it.

From: Clarke Griffin - 1:41 pm  
well, it's the best you're getting for now :)

To: Clarke Griffin - 1:43 pm  
I'll take it for now, then. Anyway, forgive me - I need to get back to work. I'll text you later?

From: Clarke Griffin - 1:46 pm  
work hard and earn lots so you can treat me to a nice dinner! talk to you later :)

From: Clarke Griffin - 1:47 pm  
just so you know, because jokes tend to work badly over text, i was kidding about the treating me to dinner part

From: Clarke Griffin - 1:47 pm  
i can totally pay for myself

From: Clarke Griffin - 1:47 pm  
not that i doubt that you can pay for me, it's just

From: Clarke Griffin - 1:48 pm  
anyway i'm going to shut up now

From: Clarke Griffin - 1:49 pm  
sorry

 

She bites down on her bottom lip to avoid laughing out loud, but cannot help the smile that spreads across her face. She tucks her phone into her back pocket and strolls over to organize the guitar picks by the counter. Lexa absentmindedly hums along with the song playing through the speakers and pays no attention to the curious way Anya is looking over at her.

The rest of the day passes with no notable events, and by dinner time, she's in a good enough mood to close up early and head home to cook dinner. She rides home next to Anya and makes a beeline for the kitchen while Anya flops onto the couch. Lexa busies herself with washing the vegetables and chopping the chicken, while whistling a tune to herself and enjoying the domesticity of this scene: the rice boiling on the stove, knife hitting the wooden cutting board, the sounds of the tv droning on, muted through the wall.

"I'll close up tomorrow." Anya announces. "Wouldn't want you to be late to your date tomorrow."

She hums her thank you and continues cooking.

"Also, I'll help you with the outfit tonight so you don't have to worry tomorrow."

Lexa gently lowers the chicken into the pan and lets the resounding hiss as the chicken hits the oil answer for her.

 

 

She sets the table, a generous portion of chicken served over the rice, and a glass of red wine for both of them. Anya really prefers whiskey, but it's the first time in a while she's actually taken the time to cook instead of tossing a salad together or ordering take-out.

"Dinner's ready," she calls out as she takes a seat.

Anya pads over and sits down, leaving the tv to continue on in the background. She picks up her wine glass and twirls it between her fingers twice, proceeding to eye it critically afterwards. "Are you wooing me?" She asks sarcastically, keeping an impressively straight face.

"You wish," Lexa shoots back, fork digging into her own portion.

"Hm. I prefer whiskey."

"I know."

"Cheers," Anya says drily, reaching over to clink their glasses together.

The rest of their dinner is spent in a similar fashion, and Lexa leaves Anya to clean up the dishes. It's an unspoken agreement between the two of them. Lexa will do the cooking, and Anya will clean up afterwards. For that matter, much of their relationship is based upon silence. They don't thank each other, and they don't apologize to each other. Lexa doesn't know when they decided upon that - or if they ever even decided upon anything like that - more likely than not, they just ended up knowing each other so well that it would have just been redundant and pointless to thank or apologize to the other.

She showers and texts Clarke a couple more times before she calls Anya into her room.

"Do you think this is okay?" She asks, holding up a pocketed black t-shirt and a pair of torn up black skinny jeans.

"Do you want her to think you're a snot nosed punk?" Anya shoots back quickly, leaning against her doorframe.

"Point taken," she nods before returning the shirt to the closet.

Anya crosses over the threshold before gingerly sitting down on her bed. "Just grab a dress shirt. Any of those work, wait, except the one you're holding. Not that one. The white one's fine. Pair it with your nicest black pair of pants, and a black tie. Roll the sleeves up, neatly, and you're good to go. Formal without looking like you're trying too hard. Black shoes, by the way, if you weren't going to do that already."

"What about my sleeve?" She gestures to the tattoos swirling up and down her left arm.

"What about it? She's probably seen it already. In fact, that's probably what landed you her number anyway."

"I was going to go to a rather formal restaurant. People are going to judge."

"So? You're not trying to sleep with them anyway. Let them judge."

"Crass way of putting it," Lexa remarks lightly.

Anya shrugs in response.

"Alright, you're done here. Go shower and do whatever it is you do at this time." She ushers Anya out of her room and lays out her chosen outfit on a chair. She sits down on the edge of her bed, staring blankly at the wall before sighing. She grabs her phone off the nightstand.

 

To: Clarke Griffin - 10:38 pm  
I'm going to go to bed. Good night, I'll see you tomorrow at 6:30?

From: Clarke Griffin - 10:39 pm  
you're sleeping this early? and yes, 6:30 sounds great! sweet dreams! x

To: Clarke Griffin - 10:40 pm  
It's not that early..

From: Clarke Griffin - 10:40 pm  
do you turn into a pumpkin at midnight? because that would be a bummer

From: Clarke Griffin - 10:41 pm  
well, i guess i'll let you rest up. good night!

 

She plugs her phone in and turns off the light in her room, slipping into bed. She tosses and turns for a while before finally drifting off.

 

Lexa wakes up at 7 am, tosses on her work outfit, and brushes her teeth in the bathroom. She drinks her coffee, eats her breakfast, and applies her eyeliner before heading down to her store. She opens shop at 8:30, like she always does.

6:30 has never seemed so far away.

She manages to busy herself with stocking up on things and organizing the backroom, but by 10:30, she's out of things to really do. It's relatively early on a Thursday morning and business is slow. She pulls her phone out, checking Facebook and her voicemails, and really, anything to keep her occupied.

She caves at 11:13 and texts Clarke, reasoning with herself that she needs to let her know how to dress for dinner anyway.

 

To: Clarke Griffin - 11:13 am  
Good morning. 6:30 still work for you? Dinner's at 7:00, but I wanted to pick you up.

From: Clarke Griffin - 11:15 am  
yes 6:30 is still good. so excited to see you later!

To: Clarke Griffin - 11:15 am  
Good. I'll pick you up then, dress nicely.

 

A couple of teenagers walk in after that, and she rings them up. "See you later, Nathan, Tony." She calls over her shoulder as they exit the store. The two boys wave earnestly before turning the corner.

Other than them, no one else walks in and Lexa can't tell if she's pleased or irked by this development, or rather, lack of one.

Anya strolls in at 3, and by then, Lexa is sure she's irked by the lack of people and also ready to strangle herself with the guitar strings hanging on the wall behind her. Anya squints at her.

"What?" She asks, none too politely.

"Nothing." Anya pins her name tag onto her shirt carefully.

"I'm serious. Why did you look at me that way?"

"Nothing."

"Anya."

Anya looks over at her, lazy and lethargic in her movements. "Nothing. But, see, now I'm curious. Just how many bees do you have up your ass?"

Lexa huffs and flips her off.

"Better start working on that attitude before your date rolls around, sugartits, or else I'll have picked out your outfit for nothing," she says gleefully.

Lexa just takes her name tag off and lobs it over at her.

Anya catches it easily, and crowds her out of the store, singing 'good luck, have fun, be safe' and closing the door behind her, the bells jingling with the motion.

She can't tell if she's more annoyed or amused or grateful, so she just rides home.

 

She texts Clarke, asking for her address, and ends up arriving a couple minutes early. Clarke lives in a good neighborhood. Like, a really expensive, really good neighborhood. She gets eyed by people when she pulls up by Clarke's house, and they all shift further away from her. She scuffs her boot and holds her head higher. She goes to ring the doorbell, and looks around at the porch and lawn, praying that Clarke will open the door soon.

The door opens. It's not Clarke. In fact, it's a completely different girl. Her brown hair is loose, and her eyebrows arch in an inquisitive manner. She blocks the doorway. "Hey. Who're you?"

Lexa steps back in confusion. "Um, sorry, I'm here for Clarke Griffin?" At the lack of response, she tacks on hastily, "My name's Lexa. We were going out to dinner?"

The girl looks at her appraisingly, comprehension coloring her features. "Oh, I see." She steps back and turns, allowing Lexa a peek inside the house in all of its neat and modernistic glory. "Raven! She's here," She calls into the house.

Lexa licks her lips and tugs a little on her tie. No sign of Clarke. She should probably run for the hills then. She doesn't notice the approach of another girl while she ponders how quickly she can excuse herself.

The two girls crowd the doorway. The second one, presumably Raven, glances at her, scrutinizing her outfit. It takes every ounce of punk-rock in her to not look down and second guess her outfit. "So, Lexa, right?"

She stands up straighter. "That's right."

"I'm Raven. That's Octavia." She gestures to the first girl. "We're Clarke's roommates and her best friends."

Oh. That's not good. She didn't plan on meeting the friends until after the third date, at least. "It's a pleasure to meet you," She says smoothly.

"Right," Octavia says, eyebrows still arched.

"Anyway," Raven continues. "I'm just going to let you know right off the bat that Clarke is a good person. Who knows what this Earth has done to deserve her. In related news, Octavia knows Judo and Krav Maga and probably a bunch of other things. I have lots of heavy wrenches. There will be no expense spared, no stone left unturned, and no energy left unspent if you hurt her. The whole nine yards, Lexa. The whole nine yards."

Octavia smiles and nods.

That might unsettle her more than Raven's entire speech. "Got it. No hurting Clarke. We're very clear."

"Raven! O! Could you guys please stop harassing my date?"

They part, leaving the doorway open. Octavia looks away and shrugs while Raven just smiles smugly. Clarke stands in a sequined, silver dress that goes down to mid-thigh, and Lexa swallows quickly before remembering her manners.

"You look stunning, Clarke."

"Thank you," she says warmly. "You look really good."

They stand there for a little bit, just smiling at each other before Raven - or was it Octavia? She wasn't paying attention to them - clears her throat.

"Um, yeah, we should get going." Lexa offers her hand up.

Clarke smiles before taking it graciously. Raven and Octavia swoop in to press a kiss to Clarke's cheek and murmur some warnings and encouragement, no doubt, before they pull back and close the door.

Lexa clears her throat. "Well, they certainly like me," she comments drily.

Clarke laughs, tossing her head back in a motion that leaves Lexa looking at the column of her throat as it moves with her laughter. Her laugh is warm and bright, rasping a bit at the beginning, and altogether so _Clarke_ , and it leaves her feeling like someone wrapped a blanket around her. "They're like that with everyone. Dates, friends, step-fathers. Everyone, really."

"Step-fathers? Wow, that's impressive," she jokes, and files away this particular piece of information under 'terrifying'.

Clarke looks down at her flats with a fond smile. "They can be a little crazy sometimes, but I love them."

"They seem like good friends," she offers.

"Oh, the best."

Lexa smiles in response, and hands a helmet over.

Clarke looks down at her motorcycle. "Why am I not surprised?" She says, pulling the helmet on.

 

 

They get to the restaurant in a timely manner, and like she had predicted earlier, it's full of rich, middle-aged men and women who stare at her tattoos with a disapproving look. But Clarke is also staring at it with a completely different look in her eye, and it makes up for it completely.

Clarke is, simply put, enchanting. She wasn't sure what to expect, and she did have rather high expectations for this night, but the real date blew her expectations out of the water. Lexa learns that Clarke's a med student, with an incredible drive to help others and fix what she can. She has a heart two sizes too big, and cares so deeply and intensely about everyone. She learns that Clarke's wise beyond her 25 years, and wonders how she did not see the intelligent gleam in her eyes the first time around. She also learns that there is so much more to Clarke.

Clarke is rich in history. There are stories that hide in the way she gestures so animatedly with her hands, stories in the way that wine just goes down so smoothly and perhaps way too quickly, stories in the way that she stills when the word father comes into conversation, stories behind every little quirk of the lips and laugh. 

She wonders how easy it would be to just drown in her.

And she startles when the answer is too easy.

Lexa excuses herself to the restroom for a bit, smiling at Clarke as she walks away, hyperaware that she is watching her every move. She just ends up washing her hands and looking into the mirror. She looks animated, a little flushed with red tinted cheeks despite her tan coloring, her hair in messy waves down her back, her tie crooked and a smile dancing at the corner of lips.

She blinks a couple times and fixes her tie. And she knows. She knows now that if she continues down this road, it'll change everything up. She might not love Clarke yet, but the potential is there. She can see herself fitting into spaces that Clarke has left open, and see it a couple weeks, months, _years_ down the road. Everything is there and waiting to be set in motion. Lexa knows if she pursues a relationship, she won't be leaving it unscathed. She'll leave with water in her lungs, phantom touches burned in her skin, and Clarke always on the tip of her tongue.

She leaves the restroom and walks back to Clarke, eyes finding her smile and never looking back.

 

Clarke insists on paying for the meal, and while Lexa's bank account heaves a sigh of relief, her sensibilities are rubbed wrong.

"Let me pay," Clarke wheedles. "If not because you look so great, then because my friends totally accosted you at the doorway." She looks up at her, cerulean eyes big and begging.

Lexa stops in her vigorous head-shaking to stare, and in her hesitation, Clarke calls the waiter over for the check, snatches the bill, and doesn't let her see the total cost. She also refuses any money Lexa shoves at her in the aftermath.

"If you really want to pay me back," Clarke begins. 

"Yes," Lexa responds immediately.

"You didn't even hear what I was going to ask for!"

"I figured the biggest request you could make of me on the first date would be my kidney, and I've got two of those. So, yes."

Clarke throws her head back in laughter again, and Lexa admires her for those sparse seconds. "Okay, okay. If you really want to pay me back, ask me for a second date."

"It would be my pleasure. We can sort out the details later, though."

"Perfect," Clarke grins at her, and interlaces their fingers.

Lexa smiles down at their hands, and hums as they walk back to her motorcycle. "I think it's around 9:30. We should get you home."

"Oh, so you really do turn into a pumpkin at midnight!"

"What? No, I just feel like Olivia-"

"Octavia-"

"- Octavia and Raven would appreciate it if I got you back before midnight."

Clarke narrows her eyes at her. "No, I'm pretty sure it's because you turn back into a pumpkin at midnight."

"I'll text you at midnight," Lexa challenges.

Clarke cocks her head to one side and smiles. "Deal."

 

She gives her leather jacket to Clarke for the ride back, and strangely, doesn't mind the wind whipping at her skin as long as Clarke's arms are wrapped snugly around her waist. She walks Clarke to her front door.

"I had a really amazing night," Lexa breathes.

"Me too. I loved being in your company." Clarke's eyes flicker between looking at Lexa's eyes and lips.

"You're a really great person, Clarke," she says earnestly.

Clarke hums, and pulls down on Lexa's tie, wrapping it around her fist once, and presses her lips to Lexa's. They hear a light tap, and Clarke pulls away, glaring over at the window.

"Come on, Octavia."

"That was Raven," comes the miffed reply.

Clarke ignores it, and leans in to press another kiss to Lexa's lips and a last one to her cheek.

"Don't forget to text me at midnight," she laughs, hand squeezing gently at Lexa's shoulder.

"I would never."

"Okay." She smiles again, and shakes her head just slightly, before turning away to open the door. She leans against the doorframe, light pouring out of the house and illuminating her hair. "Good night," she says softly.

"Good night," Lexa replies, taking one last glance at how her leather jacket engulfs Clarke's frame, and how the sleeves hang long and cover her fingertips. She'll have to ask for it back later, when the sheer tenderness of this moment has passed and her heart slows. She swallows once, then twice and smiles. She waves once over at where Octavia and Raven are hovering and waves another time, smaller in scale, directed only towards Clarke, before walking into the night, and riding back with her heart pounding out the rhythm of Clarke's name the whole way home.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Visual for Lexa [here](http://hailhedaleksa.tumblr.com/post/123497195894/bikerlexa). It's a great edit! (not mine, of course)
> 
> I'm going to apologize for any mistakes in spelling or grammar. If you see any mistakes please kick me in the butt and point them out to me and I'll fix them up as best I can. 
> 
> Anyway, please hit me up on my [tumblr](http://nxneteens.tumblr.com) because I'm always thirsty for friends. (nxneteens.tumblr.com in case that link doesn't work) Also yes I have a lot of women's football/soccer on my blog at the moment and I promise there are other things too :)


	3. when rome's in ruins, we are the lions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She is nowhere near the perfect look that everyone drones on about and yet, Lexa can feel her breath catch with the sheer beauty of it all.

She's practically buzzing when she steps back into the house. Anya looks up at her from her position at the couch. She folds over the corner of her well-worn book carefully, and lays it at her side.

"Good date?" She asks offhandedly.

"Um, yeah, it was good," Lexa replies distractedly, busy texting Clarke.

 

To: Clarke Griffin - 10:21 pm  
Got home safely. Thanks for a great night!

 

She looks up to find that Anya is studying her intently. She shifts in her spot, at a loss for words for a little bit. "So, how was work?" Before Anya can reply, her phone buzzes and she smiles down at the message.

 

From: Clarke Griffin - 10:22 pm  
good to hear! you owe me a second date and i'd hate for that to be at your funeral.

From: Clarke Griffin - 10:22 pm  
although really, if you died i'm sure it's because you insist on riding on that death trap you call transportation.

 

Anya murmurs a reply in the background and Lexa automatically responds with, "Great, that sounds nice," while she texts Clarke back.

 

To: Clarke Griffin - 10:22 pm  
Don't even try to pretend otherwise, I know you loved riding on "that death trap".

 

"Yeah, it was a nice day. Some people smashed a couple windows, but don't worry, Indra and her abnormally large chihuahua Gustus took care of them. Not to mention, I decided I'm going hardcore vegan, so you better trash all those leather jackets you have. I also officially signed over the record shop to the owners of Ice Nation, you know that shop across street? Yeah."

Lexa hums. "That's nice." 

Anya taps her foot and waits.

When the words sink in, she drops her phone on her foot. "Ow, fuck! You did what? What the hell happened today, Anya, what the fuck?" She aggressively picks up her phone, movements jerky as she scrapes her nails across the hardwood floor.

Anya just laughs.

Lexa is five seconds away from pouncing on her and choking the laughter right out of her.

"Down boy," she chokes out. "Nothing happened. I sold like 5 records and 2 posters. Other than that, nothing else happened. I'm honestly surprised you were listening at all."

Lexa shoots her a miffed look. "Of course I was listening. I'm mildly offended you thought I wasn't."

"Calm your tits, Lexa, I'm just saying you were so absorbed in texting your date that I was surprised you even registered what I was saying."

"Even still," she sniffs.

"Aww, I'm sorry, did I hurt baby's feelings?" Anya coos in a sickening voice, head tilted and lips pouted as she makes her way over to where Lexa's standing, no doubt to trap her in a bear hug and ruffle up her hair.

"Don't touch me," she responds as she slides out of Anya's range. She stalks over to her room. "Hate you, asshole."

Anya blows a kiss at her.

She closes the door.

 

She texts Clarke up until midnight, like she promised.

 

To: Clarke Griffin - 12:00 am  
Update: Not a pumpkin.

To: Clarke Griffin - 12:01 am  
Update: Still not a pumpkin.

From: Clarke Griffin - 12:02 am  
mhmmm sure. i might need some proof, miss

To: Clarke Griffin - 12:02 am  
What, texting you isn't enough? Pumpkins don't have hands, last I checked.

 

She walks out of her room, smiling down at her phone. Anya looks up from the couch again. "Just washing up," she offers by way of explanation.

"Yeah? And what's your hot date saying?"

 

From: Clarke Griffin - 12:05 am  
nice try. i'm going to need some solid proof.

 

"She wants proof I'm not a pumpkin," she chuckles incredulously.

"Sweet. Toss me your phone, I'll take a picture."

Lexa just looks at her.

Anya nods, eyes wide and serious. She claps her hands together before opening them up, ready to catch.

Lexa sighs and tosses the phone underhand over to Anya.

"Great, now take your shirt off."

"Anya!"

"Nothing I haven't seen before, sweetcheeks. Take it off." Anya waves her hand in a shooing motion and readies to take the photo.

"I'm not taking my shirt off."

"Boring. Take it off."

"No, come on, just get a good head shot. Girls just want a good head shot."

"What? No way, you're not running for President and you're not like 90. Take the shirt off."

Lexa splutters. "What does running for President have to do with- you know what, never mind. Just take the photo. I'm not taking my shirt off.

"Okay, okay. Come closer. I can't get a good angle from there."

She edges closer warily.

Anya reaches over and lifts her shirt up and snaps a quick shot while Lexa struggles to pull it down.

 

To: Clarke Griffin - 12:08 am  
[ Load Attached Picture ] heres ur proof

 

It's a slightly blurred photo of Lexa looking alarmed while an arm tugs her shirt up. Anya sighs regretfully. "Didn't even get the goods."

Lexa is mortified.

 

To: Clarke Griffin - 12:09 am  
I'm so sorry, that was my roommate. I'm really not that crude.

From: Clarke Griffin - 12:10 am  
i don't mind(; do you work out?(;

 

She buries her face in her hands.

 

From: Clarke Griffin - 12:11 am  
okay that was me trying to be funny

From: Clarke Griffin - 12:12 am  
honestly lex, don't worry about it. it's a cute pic. thank your roommate for me :)

 

Lexa heaves a sigh of relief.

Anya returns to reading her book like nothing happened.

 

To: Clarke Griffin - 12:14 am  
I'm sorry about that, again. I'm going to go to sleep now, though. Good night!

From: Clarke Griffin - 12:14 am  
alright, sleep well! good night x

 

When she finishes washing up, Anya is still on the couch. But instead of reading, the tv's on and she's watching some late night talk show.

"Night, Anya." She says.

"Night."

She walks over to her room and moves to close the door. 

"Hey Lexa?"

"Yeah."

"Happiness looks good on you," Anya says quietly. "Sleep well." She gets up and crosses over to the bathroom without another word.

Lexa closes her door and leans her back on it, closing her eyes and listening to the rushing of water coming from the bathroom. She catches a glimpse of herself in a mirror as she moves over to her bed, and she can only agree with Anya. Happiness suits her.

 

 

Lexa sets up their second date relatively soon after their first one. She goes, once again, up to Clarke's obscenely nice house and neighborhood to pick her up and succeeds in fielding more stares. That's when it hits her. The neighborhood Clarke's living in is extremely close to the Upper East Side of New York, and she toys briefly with the idea that Clarke is one of those UES princesses before discarding the notion. She has two roommates to help with the cost of the house, and is nowhere near like the other spoiled brats she had to deal with.

She ends up knocking on the door and facing down with Octavia and Raven's glares once more before Clarke shoos them away. They stand at the door, smiling dumbly at each other, before Clarke gives her outfit an once-over, and raises an eyebrow. Lexa's dressed in a blue dress shirt and black jeans, and still has the tie on because that resulted in a nice reward last time.

Clarke's dressed much more casual, with a loose grey cardigan over a white top and black jeans. Her blonde hair's up in a high ponytail, pulling her normally soft features into more contrast. She looks beautiful, shining in her simplicity.

"We're not going to one of those restaurants again, right, Lexa?" She asks.

"Umm..." Lexa responds. She was planning on one of those restaurants again, actually.

"Don't take me on a date that you think is fit for a  _queen_ or whatever other bullshit people spout," Clarke says softly, mouth lilting up in a laugh, stepping in closer. "We had a fancy date already. I don't need another. Take me out on a normal date. No impressive fancy restaurants, no fancy garments. Take me around your neighborhood. Show me the places you frequent, the places _you_ like. Show me Brooklyn- anything but those fancy restaurants - I've had enough for a whole lifetime. Give me the entire _Lexa Woods_ experience."

"The whole experience, huh?" 

"Every single nitty-gritty detail, yes."

She doesn't say anything, just lets the silence swell between them for a bit. She loosens her tie with one hand and unbuttons the top of her collar. "Well, if it's the whole experience you want, that's what you're going to get." She grabs Clarke's hand and smiles, before briskly walking over to her bike. She holds out the spare helmet again and smiles impishly.

Clarke looks at it and scrunches her nose in mock disgust. "Death trap," she mutters under her breath, but now Lexa can see the mischievous gleam dancing in her eye, and wonders how she didn't see it earlier. 

Putting on her own helmet and swinging one leg over the seat, she starts the motorcycle. "Better hang on tight," she says.

The whole ride down over to Brooklyn, she can hear snippets of Clarke's laughter, husky and alive, over the roar of the wind and decides this may be her favorite sound in the world so far. She takes them down to the movies, grabs tickets to the showtime closest to the current time, and pulls Clarke in. The movie theater is a more than just a little worn, with kernels of popcorn trampled everywhere and mysterious spills decorating the carpet, but Clarke looks at it as if she were looking at a treasure. Apprehension blends into curiosity in the depths of her blue eyes, and within them, Lexa even thinks she sees a sort of greed as well. Perhaps it is not the greed she is most familiar with, old men grasping at bills with a gleam in their eyes, but rather, the same sort of look that a bird has when their cage door is finally opened and they can extend their wings.

Clarke looks at everything as if she is ready to glide past it all and make it hers.

She buys them a bag of overpriced popcorn and lathers it in an unhealthy portion of synthetic butter, laces her fingers through Clarke's, and leads them to theater eight.

She spends the first thirty minutes of the movie staring over at Clarke, watching as the bright colors play over her face and color her fair hair and eyes different shades. When she turns back to the screen, she tries to pay attention to the rest of the movie, but gives up once she realizes she had no clue what's going on.

Clarke sees her looking, she's sure of it. She watches the smile creep up the corner of Clarke's lips, even as she never tears her eyes from the screen. Impulsively, Lexa surges forwards and presses a gentle kiss to the upturned corner of Clarke's mouth - and promptly flushes.

Clarke giggles.

She flushes and thanks every god in existence for her tan complexion and for the relative darkness of the theater.

She glues her eyes to the screen and pretends not to notice Clarke looking over at her. She clears her throat and gestures forward at the screen. "Keep watching, Clarke."

"Come on," Clarke whispers playfully, rubbing a thumb over their intertwined hands. "Do you even have any clue what's happening?"

She swallows and nods in response.

"Sure you do," Clarke says absently, eyes zeroed in on Lexa's lips.

They don't watch much more of the movie. 

Clarke tastes of buttered popcorn over sweet mint gum and it's not an unpleasant sensation. Besides, that wasn't the part she was more focused on anyway. Clarke's lips are plush and luxurious, softer than she remembered or dared imagine, and altogether, downright sinful. It makes her feel childish, making out with her date in a movie theater, but honestly, she couldn't care less as long as it was Clarke.

The lights come on again after a bit, and Clarke leans her forehead against Lexa's, and hums softly before opening her eyes. She thumbs at Lexa's cheek tenderly and rises, knees popping as she laughs.

She turns to stretch, with her wild blonde hair swinging behind her and swollen lips opening to let out a yawn. Her pupils are still dilated, and her cardigan is crooked and falling off one shoulder. She is nowhere near the perfect look that everyone drones on about and yet, Lexa can feel her breath catch with the sheer beauty of it all.

"Come on, Lex, this can't be the end of the date, can it? That's a bit too middle school."

She scoffs. "I promised you the whole thing, didn't I?"

She takes her to a dive bar and watches as Clarke's eyes light up once more with an insatiable need to absorb every moment playing out before her. They play pool, and Clarke pretends to need Lexa's guidance as an excuse for her to embrace her from behind and direct her shots. Lexa is happy to indulge her.

11:30 pm finds them in a grungy little diner that Lexa frequents - their shakes are simply divine. She orders an orange sherbet milkshake and Clarke gets a chocolate one. Minutes later, Clarke finds herself ready to cry into her milkshake.

"Did they make this from baby Jesus' tears? Because I swear to G-"

Lexa laughs. "No, the owner just sold his soul for the recipe."

Clarke groans and swipes a quick hand down her face. "I would happily drown in this stuff."

"Wouldn't we all."

Silence settles between them comfortably.

12:44 am finds them on Clarke's porch, lips locked and eyes closed.

1:21 am finds Lexa in bed, mind running through every moment of the date and committing it to memory.

 

 

She allows herself one lazy morning since the record shop opens late on weekends anyway. When she gets in, it's just bleary-eyed teenagers for the whole afternoon. The highlight of the day is Anya calling her.

"Lexa."

She hums in response, half slouched, half lying down in the chair at the counter. She checks over her nails.

"I got a way in. To the Upper East Side, baby. This is our way in."

"What?" She sits up in her chair immediately, shocked.

"Yeah, some family's champagne brunch or whatever. I got an invite. Everyone who even vaguely matters will be there, and more importantly, the Collins will be there. You in?"

"Wait, you just want to waltz in and rough them up and you think you won't be arrested?"

"No, do you think I'm stupid?"

Lexa opens her mouth to answer.

"Fuck you, don't answer that. Anyway, of course not. We schmooze for a bit. Maybe plant a bug on Collins Sr. and see if he says anything that we could use against him. Given that he's a walking, talking piece of garbage, it shouldn't be too hard."

"How'd you even get an invite to that? We live in Brooklyn, no way you just got an invite up there."

"Not the point. Maybe I twisted some arms, but what difference does it make? We're in." Anya sounds smug.

"Yeah, I'm in."

"Great. It's tomorrow at the Palace."

"See you later then." Lexa ends the call and places the phone down. Things are looking up.

 

 

She wears her fanciest tailored suit and tie, and yet, she still feels commonplace when she steps foot into the party. Anya's right next to her, and as they walk in, people shoot them curious looks with barely concealed disdain. She tips her head up higher, viciously willing them a fate they all undoubtedly deserved. She hates the Upper East Side, with their money and superior attitudes and false smiles. She hates everything about it, how shallow they are to how callous they can be to those they perceive to be under them.

They've only been here several minutes and already, everyone knows they don't belong.

It's just brunch, and everyone's dressed like it's a wedding.

The blatant flaunting of their wealth makes Lexa want to vomit.

She follows Anya around, and tries to not let any of them get under her skin. To make a scene here, at the New York Palace, would mean an arrest for sure. They eat the food, and make a couple rounds around the room, sniping back underhanded comments at any of those who try to shame them. Anya gets a gleam in her eye when she spots the Collins patriarch, and whispers in Lexa's ear to keep an eye out.

She watches as Anya bumps into him and makes the lift, attaching the bug to his jacket.

She surveys the room to see if anyone saw. No one seems to be paying any attention except to shoot glares at Anya who's quickly walking over. 

Anya's smiling, angled features sharp with glee.

"We're done. And check out what I got." She flashes a fat leather wallet, undoubtedly Mr. Collins'. "Now, let's skip out on this snobfest, shall we?"

They walk towards the exit quickly.

But not before a dashing pair manages to catch her attention. They're laughing, and playing the room so well, it seems like they're the center of the room despite being well along the edges.

The guy is in a well-fitted white suit with a sky blue tie and a gold pocket square. His hair is slicked back, he's tall and muscular and oozes confidence. But it's not him that catches Lexa's eye, no. It's the girl on his arm. She's in a white lace dress that goes up to mid thigh, and the sleeves drape  _just_ so, in a manner that suggests this is a custom job. Her hair is styled in waves, and she wears a headband studded with diamonds. Her eyes match perfectly with the man's tie, and her hair looks like spun gold.

Lexa's heart skips a beat and her stomach drops.

She doesn't want to say it, but her tongue betrays her.

"Clarke?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Also, thanks to everyone who commented or sent me a message- y'all are so, so, so lovely and sweet and all your comments and asks mean so much to me! x 
> 
> And as always, please talk to me via my [tumblr](http://nxneteens.tumblr.com) because I always want friends to talk to. (nxneteens.tumblr.com) 
> 
> I still have copious amounts of soccer on my blog. But there are other things too!! Promise :)
> 
> Fun story, I had this chapter written out weeks ago and just neglected to post it... I just couldn't bring myself to write the last portion.
> 
> Oh also! Before this author's note gets unbearably long: I need more people to follow, so follow me or shoot me an ask on tumblr and I'll be sure to check your blog out!


	4. survival of the richest, the city's ours until the fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fact is, it was simply not hers to understand.

Clarke turns to face her, muscles tensing up and hand gripping (well, what really can only be described as her  _date_ tighter) his perfect white suit, wrinkling the sleeve a little under her death grip. Lexa watches the recognition spark in her blue eyes, and watches as her face crumples and then promptly smoothes out and regards her blankly.

She clears her throat and brushes one hand down her - god, _fucking perfect_ \- hair, smoothing any imaginary flyaways down and smiling sweetly. She looks down to where she is gripping the guy’s sleeve too tightly, and slowly smoothes that down as well. She coughs lightly, and cocks her head up to regard him and smiles politely. “Bellamy, sweetie, mind getting us some champagne?” She reaches up with one dainty hand and pats him lightly on the chest, leaning in and whispering something indistinctly, and it makes Lexa sick to her stomach, witnessing this perfect picture of intimacy.

She feels the concern emanating from Anya as she remains frozen in place, and works up the ability to shake her head and jut her chin toward the direction of the door. And with one last glance back, Anya slips through the doors and disappears, lean figure slinking back into the background.

She watches a similar interaction unfold between Clarke and Octavia, although Octavia stays where she is, keeping a keen eye on the current situation.

Young couples inch closer, curiosity evidently piqued by the new scandal unfolding in front of them. Clarke snaps her gaze to the nearest couple and addresses them with a sickeningly sweet and condescending smile. “Katie, Connor,” she starts simply, voice light. “Is your relationship so uninteresting that you feel the need to poke your nose in my business to spice it up? Back. Off.”

The couple recoils, and dip their head in deference, backtracking, not keen on receiving another verbal lashing.

“Oh, and Katie, if you really need something to make your relationship more interesting, try the Kamasutra.” She says airily, smile razor-sharp. “Or,” she says, dropping into a faux whisper, eyes wide and innocent. “Just tell him if it’s, well, not _satisfying_.” She shrugs and blows a kiss over. “Best of luck!”

The couple flush in embarrassment and flee quickly over to the opposite side, where Clarke’s cutting comments can’t reach them.

The smile drops off her face and she turns to face Lexa. She sees Clarke’s date approach from the side with two flutes of champagne, and can see everyone backing off, as if in the presence of royalty (really?) instead of two twenty somethings. She extends her hand expectantly, and Bellamy slides the flute of champagne into her hand effortlessly and takes a position behind her.

He dwarfs her. Granted, Clarke doesn’t cut an intimidating figure on a good day. And yet, it seems like Bellamy blends right in with her, and instead of making her seem even smaller than she usually does, he adds to her frame. They take a sip of their champagne as a unit. He doesn’t even say anything, just stands there, behind her, in support.

To say Lexa feels cornered is the understatement of the century. Clarke and her date loom in front, an inseparable unit, the largest presence in a room full of large personalities. Octavia cages the area like a wary animal, eyes on them, as if Lexa had the guts to cause a scene here, with all the security milling about the perimeter.

Clarke scans the surrounding area around her and concedes, leaning forward. She sighs, hand lightly touching her forehead in concealed distress. “Why are you here, Lexa?”

“What?” She asks back aggressively. “Common trash like me not allowed?” 

At this, Clarke narrows her eyes and crosses her arms, leaning a little into Bellamy’s solid chest. “No, and you know that’s not what I mean. You’re not part of this-”

Lexa scoffs quietly, averting her eyes and looking down at her feet. It hurts to stare at the _golden_ couple too long. It hurts more to think that at one point she thought that she was on their level.

“-particular group of people. You detest this exact environment. You told me so on our first - date.” Clarke nearly whispers out the word date, and her eyes scan around quickly before snapping back to Lexa's face.

She looks up sharply. “You know why I hate this environment? It’s because of people like you. You think you’re so much better? Who are you to be snapping down at people like that? Guess what, princess? They’re all, wow, new concept, real people too, not just your fucking _servants_.

Clarke reels back, and she bares her teeth in a scowl. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” She utters in a low, warning tone.

“I saw how you treated that girl over there. You were unnecessarily mean. You’re just cruel. Do you get off of that?”

“Lexa…” Clarke starts firmly.

“No, I don’t want to hear it.” Lexa shakes her head and scoffs, still a little flustered. She makes her way past them, but stops and turns her head to address Clarke. Clarke doesn’t meet her eyes, just stares straight ahead as Bellamy snakes his arm to rest upon her shoulders, obviously in a comforting manner. She’s almost impressed by how resolutely Clarke stares straight ahead, almost regally. 

“Enjoy your life with your perfect little blue blooded boy toy.” She hisses and stalks past them and through the door, never looking back.

Clarke doesn't even acknowledge her.

Once she’s out of the room, the anger fades and despair settles in the pit of her stomach heavily.

 

 

She's sitting at a coffee shop across the street from her record shop, feeling pathetically empty. Her phone rings, and she picks up, barely sparing the ID a second glance. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she hopes it's Clarke calling to say that everything was all an elaborate prank and she was nothing like that.

"Hello? Is this Lexa?"

She's vaguely disappointed, but refuses to admit it to herself. "Speaking." She says hoarsely. "Who is this?"

Hesitation on the other side. "Octavia, but don't hang up," she rushes out.

Lexa grumbles. "What do you want?" She asks sharply.

"Listen, I begged your number off of Clarke. I know she's too proud to contact you about anything, but I want to explain what was happening at the brunch."

She scoffs, but has already made up her mind to stay on the phone. Her curiosity piqued, she settles into a more comfortable position.  
  
"Bellamy, the guy she's with, that's my half brother. We're... new money, trying to work our way into UES society. That's where the best investors are, anyway. Clarke's old money. She knows everyone and their kinks, and then some. She's helping integrate him in, cause it's, like, really respectable if he has her support. The Griffin's are practically royalty, and - actually, I think Clarke's related to some Swedish princess - Anyway, that's beside the point. What is glaringly obvious is that she really likes you. She would never play you like that. It's more of a favor to me, and I really think that you shouldn't fault her for it. I know you were really upset seeing them together, but seriously, nothing's going on. Just a classic case of Clarke I-have-a-heart-that's-two-sizes-too-big Griffin."

Lexa doesn't know if she should rejoice or not.

Octavia is noticeably stunned by the lack of excitement, even over the phone. "Hello? Lexa? What the fuck, where'd you go?"

"I'm still here."

"Well? I mean, there's, like, no reason to stay mad. Unless you don't actually like her. In which case, I will hunt you down -"

"What about how she treated Katie? That's not the girl I went on two dates with."

Octavia sighs, and Lexa can seriously imagine her rubbing at her temples. "It's... complicated."

Lexa bristles. "Try me."

"It's just, hierarchy, yeah? She's at the top. And usually, it doesn't ever get that bad, you know? She's sweet. Usually it's Bell who lays down the law, so to speak. But if you don't assert yourself, the UES is just a bunch of lions waiting to devour you. If she had let Katie continue butting in, rumors would fly and threaten her position at the top, and then her family starts losing influence - and well, despite how rocky her relationship with Abby can be, Clarke prizes family."

"Why does that even matter? Position, wealth, influence, it's all superficial."

"It just does. You don't need to understand it. You just need to know it's a central part of Clarke's personality, just like Brooklyn is part of yours. And you need to accept it. And if you can't accept that?"

Lexa stays silent, and holds her breath.

"Then I guess you don't deserve her." Octavia stays on the line for three more tense seconds and hangs up without another word.

Lexa throws her phone down, case side down, onto the floor. She exhales quickly.

It doesn't make her feel any better.

 

To: Clarke Griffin - 11:47 am  
We should talk.

From: Clarke Griffin - 11:55 am  
Whatever you think is best in this situation.

To: Clarke Griffin - 11:55 am  
Meet me at Andy's?

From: Clarke Griffin - 11:59 am  
Since you asked so nicely. See you in 20.

 

A limousine pulls up to the coffee shop, and Lexa honestly can't even say that she's surprised. Clarke's still wearing the same dress, and the lazy morning sun sets her hair alight, and the combination of her shining hair and white dress makes her look ethereal. It causes Lexa's heart to pump, and yet also her stomach to churn in dread. It almost hurts to stare, but she can't drag her eyes away either.

Bellamy steps out and pulls her into a hug, before going back in. The limousine parks there, painfully out of place in her grungy neighborhood.

Lexa flicks her wrist and motions towards Clarke and the limo in general, saying mockingly, "Fit for a queen." She makes sure to point out the delicate headband she's wearing.

Clarke freezes, and she sees a mixture of hurt and acidic anger for a second and it makes her feel guilty. Clarke goes for a biting smile instead. "I'm not staying long if you're just going to  _mock_ me all day." _  
_

"I'm sorry."

"Just for that? Or for earlier, as well?" Clarke says delicately, her smile bordering more on sneer.

"For both," Lexa responds. "Octavia talked to me, and I get it. I can accept that-" She gestures in a wild manner at all of Clarke. "-all of this, this, ah, opulence, wealth - craziness! - is part of you. Just as much as shitty diners and tattoos are a part of me."

"No." 

Lexa startles, mildly offended. "Excuse me?"

"No, you can't."

"Sorry?" She asks incredulously. "I just told you that I understand, and more importantly, accept it." She leans forward earnestly. "I like you a lot, Clarke. And this isn't something that we should let come between us." She reaches for Clarke's hands.

Clarke draws her hands back and clasps them on her knee. "That's the thing. You don't understand. You don't, and you won't, but most importantly, you're not even fucking  _trying_."

Lexa draws back, offended. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." Clarke says acerbically, all pretenses and pleasantries gone. "You don't understand my world -  _me_ - because you're not really trying to understand it."

"Oh, _sorry_ that I don't want to involve myself in a  _poisonous_ environment of backstabbers for  _fun_."

Clarke huffs. "That's my whole  _fucking_ point right there. Are you even trying? Poisonous, backstabbers... you don't get it. Oh, don't get me wrong, I'm sure you'll overlook it, but you won't accept it, so don't even try telling me you _understand._ "

Lexa knocks the table with her knuckles in frustration. She scoffs, and feels all the bitterness and world-weary frustration of 28 years set in her bones. "Like you would understand what it's like living here, in the real world."

"You can't expect that I'll understand if you don't let me even try."

"Even then, would you understand?" She balls her fists. "Do you understand what it's like to be written off as a 'gang banger'? To go fucking hungry days in a row? To have to fend for yourself at all times because the policemen don't see you as anything but common street trash? You live in a _fucking dream_ , Clarke. You don't understand this shit, and I don't _fucking_ expect you to. It's part of me, but I don't think that you need to put up with any of that because you like me. Why don't you just go on spending daddy's money, Clarke?"

Clarke averts her eyes and clenches her jaw.

"And don't pretend to want to know about the poor, because false concern is never a pretty look."

"Pardon?"

Lexa laughs sardonically. Of course she would say _pardon_. She scoffs. "Don't pull that shit. Just go on and spend the trust-fund that Daddy will go on filling up for you up until he's dead. And by then, you'll have a rich husband to worry about that for you."

Clarke stiffens. "You know what, Lexa? _Fuck you._ " She spits, cheeks going red. "How fucking dare you. You don't get to say that my life is easy in the same way I don't get to say that yours was easy. You haven't lived my life. Daddy's not gonna be filling any trust funds any time soon. And you know exactly why. Don't tell me you don't know the tragic story of poor old Jake Griffin?"

Lexa stills in her seat, remembering the old articles she had read years earlier, about Jake Griffin, New York's most beloved philanthropist, whose grisly and scandalous murder shook the whole state. Her stomach sinks, and guilt settles heavily on her shoulders. She hadn't drawn the connection until now. "Clarke," she whispers.

Clarke ignores her weak attempt and continues on. "You don't get to say shit until you watch your father murdered in front of your eyes and have to pretend to hold it together in front of _fucking everyone_  because your mom is running for senator and because 'the media will have a field day, clarke'. You don't get to say shit about getting a rich husband when all I have done is burn bridges and _fight_ so that I could go out and work and become a doctor. Yeah, you've got to fight, and you've got to fight real hard, but at least you've got family and friends to come home to on the holidays. You've had it real fucking hard but that doesn't invalidate my whole life. You don't get to tell me that."

Lexa feels her anger subside with every word Clarke spits at her. Her stomach bottoms out and she feels thoroughly sick. "Clarke, I-"

"Pardon my language, Lexa, but please just -  _stop_. I don't want to hear it."

"Clarke," she whispers, pleads, begs.

Her golden hair hangs around her face, obscuring a clear view of her eyes. Her head is down. Lexa wants to reach out and twine herself around Clarke and physically shield her from any harm coming her way.

"Clarke, I'm so s-"

"Please don't." Clarke lifts her head and meets her eyes. "Just. Don't." Her eyes are red, and her sky blue eyes are even bluer in comparison. She's screaming in color, cheeks red, hair the color of a ray of sunlight, skin bone white from tension, and a million and one other things, but Lexa just feels utterly drained. "Don't," Clarke says softly but firmly.

Her mouth goes dry and she feels the magnitude of everything she shouted weighing down on her. She falls to her knees in front of Clarke, hands blindly seeking hers out, eyes searching for a forgiveness she knows she will not find. She can't get a single word out, but manages to choke out her name multiple times, every time sounding less and less like a prayer and more and more like a confession of her sins.

Clarke looks sadly down at her, brushes the hair out of eyes, runs gentle fingers by her cheek. "I have to go." She stands, and turns to the limousine she arrived in. She wraps her arms around herself and briskly crosses over to the car, leaving Lexa back at the shop, on her knees, never even sparing a glance back.

Lexa watches her go, and feels every step as a physical pang in her chest.

And even after all that, in the end, Clarke was never hers to understand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ft. Clarke Griffin, clapback queen  
> I'm so sorry that it took me this long to pump this chapter out, wow. I don't have any other excuse except for school, and that I spent all of my down time going out, trying to settle into a good group.
> 
> Y'all should still check out my [tumblr](http://nxneteens.tumblr.com) :) because I love every single one of you guys.
> 
> Hey, be sure to tell me what you think, be it in comment form or an ask, I'm generally really good at answering most comments and asks that come my way!
> 
> Also as a recent edit to this note: if you like soccer and clexa, you guys should check out my recent tumblr friend and mutual onebigroughdraft's [a soccer love story](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5320268/chapters/12282854). It's been one of my fave reads so far, and I'm sure that y'all would enjoy it as well.
> 
> This chapter was pretty hard to type out, so let me know if I made any mistakes! Thank you for reading and supporting me, it means the world to me x


	5. bet you kiss your knuckles (right before they touch my cheek)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She sucks voids of varying purples into golden skin, but it does nothing to sate the hurt.

 She leaves Lexa kneeling like that, fleeing back to her limo, back into Bellamy's waiting arms, before she collapses in silent tears.

"I thought," She begins. "I just thought that we could just have a calm discussion, Bell."

He rubs her back, and lets her tears stain into his white suit.

"But, oh,  _God_ , the look in her eyes. She truly believed that I was one and the same with all those stereotypes, Bell. I could  _see_ it in her eyes," Clarke said, sniffling. "The disdain, the condescension, everything! She gestured at me and said craziness in the same breath. She called us backstabbing and poisonous, as if those gangs around her area are healthy- but worst of all, I could see that she meant _me_ when she said those things. After our dates and all that talking, she was ready to believe the worst about me - how can I be with someone like that? And then she started talking about Dad and I just saw everything again and again," She gasps. "Bellamy - I couldn't stop it, I couldn't stop it. I just saw him, one limb," she chokes.

Bellamy draws her tighter in his embrace, feels the heaving sobs that wrack her tiny frame.

"Lopped off and blood everywhere, and I just  _felt_ him say kiddo again and I couldn't hold it together, I just kept yelling and yelling and the memories kept flashing and flashing and oh god bell i felt like i couldntbreathe"

"Clarke," he starts, voice somber and rumbling. "Count with me. One."

She moves in a panic and it feels like her lungs have stopped working.

"Two." He kisses the top of her head as he gently keeps her arms from flailing.

The world swims around her, the silence is underwhelming and overwhelming at the same time, and she has got to leave. She has to.

"Three." He says louder and firmer.

She looks around in a panic, and the afternoon light pouring in from the windows are so so s o bright and it almost blinds her. She can't see anything but she has to leave. Her hands scrabble for the door, and she scratches Bellamy, and sees it weep red.

"Four. Clarke. Breathe." To his credit, he barely winces, even after he starts bleeding.

She focuses in on him instead of the blood under her nails, watches as his chest rises and falls. His eyes never leave hers. She becomes pliant in his steady arms.

"Five."

"-ive." She manages hoarsely, eyes never leaving his.

"Six. I've got you."

She breathes out and curls up into him. She breathes in. And out. And in. And out again. Her head is planted firmly against his chest. She breathes in.

He rolls the partition down and murmurs something to the driver in a low voice. (And out.) The car starts with a low rumble.

"Six."

 

As they pull up into her driveway, Clarke can see that Octavia and Raven are already out and waiting, twin expressions of concern and anger painted across their faces, and they bundle her up into a loose group hug (leaving enough space for her to move out if she feels the need to) and murmuring soft encouragements. She presses a small kiss to Bellamy's cheek as thanks, and he brushes a large hand by her cheek tenderly.

"Take care, Clarke." 

He presses a quick kiss to the crown of Octavia's head and gets back into the limo, waving his goodbyes. 

Octavia wraps a warm arm around her shoulders, and guides her gently towards the house. "Come on, sweetie. Let's get you inside." Raven stands to her other side and intertwines their fingers wordlessly. They lead her to the couch and fold up against her, all slow, rhythmic breathing and warm body heat. She falls asleep quickly, nestled comfortably between the two.

As soon as Clarke is sleeping, Octavia's previous gentle demeanor melts away and she hisses over to Raven quietly, "Were we not clear enough when we gave her the shovel talk? This is way past hurting her - Bell even said she had a panic attack in the car."

Raven's lips press together but she remains silent and rubs circles on Clarke's back.

"Rae, you can't be serious," Octavia gapes at her. "We can't let her get away with this."

"We're not going to let that happen, O, we just gotta make sure Clarke's okay before we go off gallivanting to hunt down her ex-Not-Girlfriend™."

Octavia relaxes and looks down at Clarke's sleeping form and nods, mollified.

  

She stirs after a couple hours, and true to form, neither Raven nor Octavia has left her side. All of them pointedly avoid talking about the brunch and Lexa in general, and after a while, Clarke retires and traipses to the shower to wash and change.

By the time she's back, Octavia's off running an errand (or so Raven says) but will be back within the half hour, so Clarke just hums and moves to the kitchen and roots around until she realizes it's futile and turns to yell at Raven.

"Take-out?"

"Is our fridge really that bad?"

"We have mimosas. And some bread. And half an avocado, strangely."

"Sounds like we have all the ingredients," Raven snorts.

"For what? We have like three things, minus some ice cream in the freezer."

"For getting drunk, C, what else?"

"So are we feeling Chinese or pizza?" Clarke asks without missing a beat.

Before Raven can open her mouth, Octavia swings into the room, arms holding a couple brown bags, mood uplifted and practically skipping. "Worship the ground I'm walking on, bitches."

Clarke peers over and Raven gives a noncommittal grunt.

She inhales dramatically, and closes her eyes, before letting out a long-suffering sigh. "I wonder why I even try. I picked up some Chipotle and a pint of Ben and Jerry's, you're all very welcome."

Clarke beams and hugs her as tightly as possible without crushing anything, before swooping in and scooping out the new pint of ice cream before gingerly putting it in the freezer. "My one true love, my savior," she says sweetly.

Octavia preens.

Raven throws a pillow. "She's talking about the ice cream, not you, O."

Octavia throws it back and nails Raven in the back of the head with it. "You're just jealous she's not talking to you."

"She always says stuff like that to me!"

"Keep telling yourself that, Reyes."

" _T_ ypical Blake behavior, thinking they have a monopoly on Clarke's love.  _I'm_  obviously the favorite."

"Are not!"

"Are too."

Clarke smiles to herself as she watches them squabble. She knows they like to talk a big game, so she's usually content to just let them yap at each other. But she's hungry, so she dives into the mayhem and slings her arms around both of them, pressing loud smacking kisses to both of their cheeks. "You're both my favorites, now shut up, and let me eat." She takes the steak burrito and settles down, leaving the chicken for Raven and the veggie bowl for Octavia.

They settle down easily enough after her declaration, but it doesn't stop Octavia from stealing bites of Raven's bowl while Raven threatens to hit her with a fork. (She never does.) All bark and no bite, Clarke smiles to herself.

 

In Brooklyn, a note is taped to a door and all it reads is "the whole nine yards". Nearby, a motorcycle is almost completely encased in saran-wrap. (All bark, no bite, indeed.)

 

As it seems, bad things do come in threes, and big bad number three reveals itself when Finn phones a little later to let them know that the family of the gang member he may or may not have hit plans to press charges against him.

"Don't worry," he says with some measure of false bravado.

Clarke runs a hand down her face and sighs. "Listen, Finn, we'll figure something out."

"Don't be mad."

"I'm not."

"The fact that you're only using two words to answer me right now says otherwise."

"What do you expect me to say, Finn? Oh, don't worry about it, it's only one man dead, it could be worse? Am I supposed to be happy this happened? Jesus, Finn." Clarke can't do anything but scoff when she's met with hesitant silence from his end.

"It was on my way back from your party, you know."

"You did _not_ just say that. I am having a bad _fucking_ day, so don't you dare try and pin this on me, Finn Collins. Not today, not ever. This one is on you. No one asked you to go drunk driving. We have chauffeurs and designated drivers for this exact reason. I'll help you through this, but you can't expect me to be happy with this."

"Maybe I should just turn myself in." He sounds like a petulant child.

"Don't be daft." She scoffs. "We're from the Upper East Side, so we'll deal with this ourselves, in our own way. If you confess and this turns into a media frenzy, which it will, your father will lose his stockholders and good reputation. That means downsizing, Finn, and more people get hurt longterm this way. Get a judge to dismiss the charges, set up some shell companies or a charity fund to pay your dues."

"People will be calling for my head. I won't even be able to walk the streets without fearing for my life! I'd be safer in prison."

"You won't be walking the streets." She says quietly.

"What?" He sounds angry, and after a brief moment, she hears a distant clap over the line, presumably him hitting something.

"We'll put you in rehab."

"You can't be serious."

"I'm dead serious." The plan is already in motion - Collins Sr. already agreed once she ran her plan by him at brunch. (He clapped her on the back and told her she had a good head on her shoulders, and she felt sick.)

"You might as well mark me for dead, Clarke," he says, tone bordering on desperation. "I'll be in there, rotting, for years on end! Until he sees fit to bring me back out, of course, but we both know that won't be until there's a bigger scandal elsewhere. After I'm out, my prospects will all be ruined. No company to inherit, no education finished, just a stint at rehab to show for everything."

"Well, I can't just get you scot-free after  _manslaughter_ , Finn. Jesus, what were you thinking?" She breathes out her question.

"I wasn't! What else do you want me to say, Clarke? I wasn't thinking when I left your party, okay? And now a man's dead, and that sucks. But I can't do anything about it, so what the fuck do you want me to do?"

Clarke nearly tosses her phone in disbelief. "How about show some regret or some remorse, Finn? God, you're crazy, that guy had a family - that sucks doesn't even begin to cover this situation!"

"Well then, Princess Compassion, color me fucking sorr-"

She hangs up, and it's not as satisfying as they show in the movies. She runs her hands through her hair, shaken by the utter lack of grieving or even just remorse. Yes, it was a shitty plan for her to propose. And she definitely shouldn't be working the system with money, by any means. But it's what's best for others, and what's best for Finn. She had made the best of a shitty scenario, even if it leaves her feeling slimy and amoral. At the end of the day, the family ends up with reparations, and is saved from throwing their all their money at a lawyer who wouldn't stand a chance against whatever high-end lawyer the Collins would have found to represent them.

If she had let the family fight them in court, it would amount to nothing. It would be less effective than the plan she had set into motion. Finn would walk free, and the grieving family would be financially ruined. It's for the best. So maybe Finn doesn't get thrown in jail and labeled a murderer like they want him to - but he doesn't walk the streets, and their lives don't get any harder for it. It's for the best, she tells herself, and repeats it like a mantra in her head.

 

Octavia and Raven drag her out to a bar that night, but do her the favor of pretending that they're doing it for their own sakes. (It's not always all about you, Griffin, jeez, I wanted to go out and get laid, okay? Raven snarks.) As they walk in, she notes that the bartender's cute, all sweet smiles and blonde hair. And when she hands her a drink on the house, Clarke admires her sloping nose and defined jawline. So what if she leaves the bar with the bartender's number safely ensconced in her jacket pocket? Eager to put the morning's fiasco behind her, she promptly goes dancing with Raven and Octavia, and remains keenly aware of the bartender's eyes on her.

But god, it's just too soon after her fight with Lexa, and honestly, the Brooklyn vibes of the club do nothing but help draw comparisons between the two. So she blows a kiss and disappears through the crowd, dragging Octavia and Raven deeper.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees the bartender pretend to catch the kiss and smile to herself. She's oddly endeared. 

Either way, she dances the night away in a happy buzz, and forgets about the cute record shop owner and the cute bartender and just loses herself in the company of her two best friends.

And yet at the end of the night, she pats her jacket pocket and ensures the number's safety. Raven and Octavia pretend not to notice, but she sees their sly smiles and smiles all the same.

Tomorrow will be a better day, she tells herself when she tucks herself into bed.

 

Clarke resolves that she can never be a clairvoyant, because today is even shittier than yesterday. She wakes up to three messages from Lexa and a hangover. The messages are worse than her hangover, even though her head pounds like Athena herself is trying to break free, and she somehow feels both hungry and nauseous at the same time. She opens them, despite herself.

From: Lexa ♥ - 9:25 am  
I think we should talk.  
  
From: Lexa ♥ - 9:25 am  
He will get what's coming to him, there's nothing you can do.

From: Lexa ♥ - 9:58 am  
I'm near the fire hydrant across the street from your house if you want to talk.

 

It's 10:02 am, and under normal conditions, she would never even dream of talking to an ex(-something) a day after a blowout fight, unless it was for an angry hookup, but the second text really unnerves her, so she throws on whatever's available (so a white silk and chiffon robe) and runs out of the house, brandishing her phone like a weapon.

She thinks she's ready for a confrontation up until she actual finds herself face to face with Lexa. And fuck, if it doesn't just force all the air out of her lungs. Lexa's wearing all black, as per usual, ripped up Ramones shirt and skinny jeans and all. Her golden skin glows in the lazy morning light, and her hair is up in it's usual complex braids, curly and just everywhere, with a life of it's own. And she just looks so good, leaning on that stupid motorcycle, with her stupid eyeliner done all perfectly, her stupid tattoos showing, and her _stupidly_ green eyes shining.

Lexa's eyes are a molten mixture of mirth and longing and despair, but her frown is all anger, she realizes as she looks into Lexa's eyes. And she realizes she's in nothing but her undergarments and a thin robe. _God,_ Lexa looks so good. Fuck, not the point, she tells herself. A traitorous voice in her head tells her to lean in and kiss her until she's too out of breath to be angry.

"What the hell is this supposed to mean?" She says accusingly, one hand on her hip, the other waving her phone.

"I know you're helping Finn." Lexa says after a pregnant pause, voice silken and low, eliciting all the wrong reactions from Clarke.

"I don't know what you're talking about." It's totally kosher, she wants to say. It's technically not illegal.

"We heard you talking to Collins Sr."

Clarke almost snorts. "That was after you left, how would you-" She drops her phone and sneers. "Wait, did you bug me? Oh, my god. What the hell?"

"Not you, Clarke," Lexa answers earnestly, as if that's much better.

"I can't believe you would do that. In what way does that seem okay?"

"In what way does killing a man and getting away with it seem okay? People get what they deserve. It's the way the world works."

Clarke seethes. "I can't say for sure," she starts slowly, thinking out her words in case Lexa's recording the conversation. "And I can't even be sure we're talking about the same thing, but if you think it through, maybe you'll find that your solution isn't the best one."

"I'm not recording." She answers bluntly. "And I'm sorry, Clarke. But everything's set now. I'm not here to fight. I'm just here to apologize to you in advance." Lexa swings one leg over her- no, not hers, it's a different color than hers, why is she on someone else's motorcycle? -motorcycle and prepares to leave.

She grabs Lexa's arm. "What do you mean? What's happening?" She hisses quietly over, avoiding her neighbor's strange looks.

"An eye for an eye, Clarke." Lexa looks over her once sadly, and rides away. Her fingertips sting with the sudden emptiness, and she swears under her breath, watching as Lexa disappears around a corner. She picks up her phone warily, and goes back inside to get properly dressed. And just as she pulls her jeans on, it hits her that something is definitely going to happen to Finn.  _An eye for an eye._ There's a vaguely nagging feeling that tells her it'll be at the exact intersection he crashed on earlier.

She dials his phone number and bolts out of the house, much to a yawning Raven's confusion. 

"Hey, it's Finn! I'm not at the phone right now, leave a message and I'll be sure to check it later. Thanks for calling!" She curses and redials, running down blocks as quickly as she can, determined to find the intersection as quickly as possible.

He picks up on the third ring.

 

"Clarke?" He doesn't greet her with the customary princess line he usually uses, and if she wasn't sure that something was up at that point, she was sure by now. Finn never sounded nervous. Not when it didn't concern her.

"Where are you?" She yells, breathing labored as she searches for Loma and 10th.

"I'm, um, just chilling. Why are you yelling and breathing hard?"

"Are you near Loma?" She pants out, still running.

"Why would I-"

"Just answer me, are you near my house?" She finds 10th, hangs a sharp right, and continues running down the street.

"Yeah, but-"

"Did someone tell you to do this?"

"Yes, but, Clarke-"

"You need to leave, now," she spits out vehemently, her lungs burning, and her panic rising by the second.

"Okay, I'll lea-"

"Away from 10thLoma," she manages. She sees a figure in the distance. It's Finn, she would know that hair anywhere. Relief, hot and searing, bursts through her system.

"Sure, but you're scaring me. I'll cross over to 11th, I guess."

"Careful," she pants, speed flagging. "See me?" She sees him look around and sees him wave at her. Clarke slows down to a jog, and half laughs and sobs out her relief.

They both hear an engine sputtering. He turns to look in the direction of it.

She screams and starts sprinting again.

She watches as the car hits him and hears the sickening sound of bones and flesh hitting metal through her phone. She hears his cut-off exclamation through the phone and faintly as it echoes around the street. She feels the tears, and pumps her legs harder. The car continues driving. Her phone's dialing 911 and she's sprinting harder than she's ever sprinted.

"911, what's your emergency?"

"Car crash, 10th and Loma, please," she chokes around a sob and on her own inhale. "Hurry, it's Finn Collins."

She can't hear any other placating words that the operator says, and only slows down when she reaches Finn.

10:38 am. She assesses injuries through her tears.  
10:39 am. She yells at him to  _not die, god damn it._  
10:40 am. She tries to stop the bleeding, wherever it's coming from, fuck.  
10:42 am. She gets glass in her left palm and has somehow managed to fuck up her shoulder as well.  
10:51 am. Ambulance arrives.

 

He's declared brain dead later that night. She digs her nails into her freshly bandaged left palm and calls a cab. All she can think about is how did Lexa know this was going to happen? How? How? How? She knows the answer but doesn't want to believe it. She can't believe Lexa was involved. She can't believe Lexa allowed this to happen - not just to Finn, but to _her_.

And maybe she didn't know her extremely well yet, but there definitely had been something. There was just a feeling she got whenever she saw Lexa - of being known in your bones, of an understanding that ran deeper than she was ready to admit after two measly dates. The feeling that months, years, so much  _further_ down the road, home was there, just waiting for her to find it in Lexa's embrace. She was willing to risk it all for that feeling of _home_ , and now it's been torn from her, in a matter of days, everything she knew about and felt for Lexa has been hollowed out. And from hollow guilt, the pervasive feeling of betrayal, and gnawing despair, springs forth anger.

Finn's gone. Lexa's to blame. Her shoulder hurts like a bitch.

She needs answers. She needs Lexa. And yet she can't have either.

The cabbie arrives and asks where to, and she just whispers, "Brooklyn."

  

Clarke's lying down on a small bed, intent on drowning her sorrows in sex and the empty company of someone she'll never be able to love. But she makes it so hard when she's kissing down Clarke's ribcage, scraping gently with her teeth as she goes, splaying butterfly kisses across the curve of her hipbones. It's tender and sweet and makes her stomach coil just so, but then she looks up with those big, knowing eyes (although, Clarke notes to herself that the black of her pupils swallow up most of what she knows to be irises of molten honey and flecks of foresty green) with such an expression of hope and compassion that Clarke's next breath catches in her throat.

But then time comes rushing forward and everything catches back up to her, and all the hurt and the anger clogs her throat and fogs her vision.

She sits up gruffly, ignoring her look of utter defeat and desperation.

"Up," she says. 

And she does as Clarke says, quietly, quickly.

Clarke wraps her hand around her throat roughly and feels as her jugular pounds out the rhythm of her heart into her fingertips, feels as it pulses, radiates, through her own bloodstream, hijacking her veins and speeding up her own heartbeat.

Clarke takes a small breather. "Not today," she manages before harshly pushing her down onto the bed.

And she looks lost for a brief moment, mouth open, pupils blown, chest heaving, instinctively trying to draw in breath as Clarke presses in a little harder with the base of her palm, squeezes a little tighter with her fingers. She sighs, and it flutters and gets caught up near Clarke's hand. She can see her squirming beneath her, desperately looking for some friction, as her long fingers find purchase in the sheets tangled around them.

She loosens her grip, and hears the deeper inhale that results from it.

Clarke runs one hand down the lines and edges of her lean body, and sucks varying voids of purple into golden skin, across her collar bone, down across different ribs (counting each one in her head she sucks a hickey into it, remembers the false ribs and the floating ribs from anatomy class), but it does nothing to sate the hurt. It does nothing to help when she imagines it's Lexa's golden skin, and draws an even deeper shade of purple that has Niylah choking and arching underneath her. (She soothes it quickly with her tongue, lathes the area with whatever affection is left in her hurting system. Niylah will not suffer for  _her_ sins.)

Her hand reaches its destination, and while she's sitting atop Niylah, golden skin littered with marks, each of them brilliant galaxies in their own right, Clarke can't help but to take a minute to admire the sight writhing beneath her. She feels a whine pass by her hand, and she squeezes once before setting to work. The rest, as they say, is history, and Niylah's asleep in bed, dirty blonde hair tousled and braids messy, tattoos peeking out from under the blanket.

And it's something damn near a miracle, Clarke thinks as she settles down and Niylah graces her with a sleepy, satisfied grin. But it doesn't do anything to soothe the throbbing ache in her shoulder, and maybe that's why she can't get over it. (It's not, but she refuses to admit otherwise.)

She satisfies the hollow anger she feels by deleting Lexa's number. 

> Lexa ♥   
> Edit Contact  
> Delete Contact?

> Delete.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah this story is actually all about #bellarke, tricked u all.   
> okay edit: this is a disclaimer no i'm not serious about bellarke, please don't ask me about it anymore. it's still a story about clarke and lexa. i tried to make a joke, but i'm feeling a little heat for it, so i sincerely apologize if that drove you off the story.
> 
> Hit me up on my [tumblr](http://nxneteens.tumblr.com)! I'd love to hear what you guys think. I tried something new this chapter, and it's called staying up until 6 am writing this because season 3 has me too hyped. Kidding, I tried something a little different with the writing style/sentence structure. Tell me what you think! 
> 
> This chapter is more or less from Clarke's point of view, and I really hope it sheds some more light on her character. Um, definitely trying something with the dialogue. I know that my dialogue has a tendency to sound a little formal and stiff, so in order to portray Clarke's anxiety accurately, I wrote it differently stylistically, hope y'all don't mind it. (Also, I'm not an expert with panic attacks or disorders, or the legal system, and most of this only reflects my own experiences, fingers crossed that I don't offend anyone.)
> 
> Wow, I'm literally so sorry this took around 7 years to publish, and that it's still shit, whoops. Please let me know if there are any glaring mistakes and I'll fix them, because I'm too lazy to get a beta. My dash is slowing down, drop me an ask on tumblr so I'm sure to check your blog out! Or, yeah, leave me an ask or a comment, because I love reading them! And as always, thank you all for reading and supporting this story x


	6. (why can't i just get one kiss?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time passes, and the prodigal son never returns home. Life continues for everyone but him.

“Dear friends and family, we are gathered here today, as you are all aware, to pay our last tributes and respects to the memory of our departed friend, Finn Everett Collins Junior. The passing of our beloved friend as an individual is a matter more of interest and regret than usually associated with the passing away of an ordinary individual... For it means not only the passing away of our late friend, but the passing away of a unique kind of innocence and optimism that is hard to come by in this day and age. It is, therefore, a tragically unique occasion, and one that seldom arises in the history of mankind. Like most people who possess something uncommon, he had come to be regarded by us as something unusual, and we prided ourselves just on a basis of knowing him.

"This large gathering, by itself, easily suggests the esteem in which he was held, and the sheer number of lives touched by such a wonderful individual. We will all remember his easy smiles and love for life. He loved life with such a passion, and it is indeed one of the tragedies of the century that we all have pay witness to such a vivacious life cut short by tragedy. He was one to attract attention no matter where he went, and there is no doubt in my mind that he will continue on in such a manner in whatever afterlife he chose for himself. If there is, perhaps, only one thing to take away from this, it is to remember Finn as he lived, and not as he died. Remember him with a smile on your face. Remember him like he is here, and not that he is gone. Thank you."

 

Clarke's wearing a black dress that makes her look like a million bucks, Octavia and Raven are by her side, everything is right with the world. Except, you know, everything's wrong. Finn's gone, and Raven's sobbing into Octavia's blazer, Bellamy's holding her clutch because her hands are shaking too much to hold it without dropping it. Octavia reaches over, grabs Clarke's hand and intertwines their fingers, steadying Clarke's bone-white, trembling hand with her own. She takes a deep breath, and Octavia nods encouragingly.

"We'd like to welcome Clarke Griffin to the front to say a couple of words."

Bellamy rubs her knee soothingly, and Octavia gives her hand one last firm squeeze. Raven lifts her head long enough to blink sadly and nods at her. She gets to the front and grips the podium with both hands, fingers digging into the wooden sides as she steadies and prepares herself. She looks up and across the people all gathered around, looking up at her expectantly. She drops her hands to her side and sighs lightly. Shuffling the speech in front of her, she looks back up and adjusts the microphone.

"Finn," she starts, and it feels like all of the air in her lungs was sucked out forcefully. She looks down at the paper in front of her, and all the words blur together into something that looks suspiciously like _your fault_. She's sure that everyone sees the heavy lidded grief and guilt written across her face, so she swallows, but his name is like a hot iron in her mouth, and it burns its way out every time she summons it up. Her tongue feels burned and heavy, sluggish in her intent to speak at length. She shakes her head.

"I'm sorry," she says to everyone, still looking at her expectantly and now, a little sadly as well. Their attention is hawkish in its intensity, so she breathes out a small laugh and looks back down at the speech in front of her shyly. "You know," she adds on, voice cracking only slightly as her throat constricts. "I had a whole speech prepared and I promise it was more than just a name and an apology." (Although, she thinks, just saying his name and an apology is perfect by itself.)

The crowd shifts and laughs a little uncomfortably, and overall, it sounds watery and raspy, like she ripped it directly from their throats.

She swallows and shrugs after a little thought. "But you know what, he's more than just a prepared speech, more than memories poured on," she waves her papers, "printer paper. So, the best way, I think, to remember him is not to read this speech, but speak from the heart like he always told me to." She drops the papers down at her feet. "To only have me speak in memory of him is cheating all of us of remembering him the different ways we all knew him, so I encourage you to think of the fondest memories you have of him and speak up. We will honor him with happy memories today, and nothing less. To remember him as anything but optimistic and loving would be wronging him. So think of him fondly, without any grief weighing that down. Swap your best Finn stories, and don't let anything mar your memories of him. Thank you."

She leaves to go back to her seat, barely hearing the clapping around her. All she's concerned about is the immediate and desperate grasp of Octavia's hand, Bellamy's comforting arm around her shoulders, and Raven's hoarse approval. She sinks down into her chair and closes her eyes. 

It's been a long day.

* * *

Octavia and Raven don't kick up a fuss when she tells them she'll meet them back at home later. Bellamy is a whole different scenario.

"You should go back and rest, Clarke."

"I'm not tired."

He meets her eyes, and isn't rude enough to say bullshit to her face, but his expression says it all for him.

"Don't worry about it, Bellamy." She warns.

"You're not going to see Lexa, right?"

She nods. 

He sighs, and rests both of his hands on her shoulders. "Be safe, okay? That's prime gang area."

"No one's going to be able to do anything to me, I have my mom's guard."

He purses his lips and gives her a minuscule nod before embracing her tightly. "Be safe," he insists.

She doesn't say anything but leaves with a kiss to his cheek.

She meets up with her bodyguard with a nod. It's not as safe out on the streets these days. Not to mention her mother's immediate fear once she heard that she was so close to Finn when he was hit. Not that she thinks anyone would target her, but it's nice having a security detail in the midst of this scandal.

Public opinion was starting to turn towards Finn, and the gangs were not happy, to say the least. Either way, she's glad to have someone there. She sends off a quick text to Niylah and starts toward the car. She gets in the back seat, frowning when she doesn't get a reply from Niylah, despite having arranged to meet her at this time. "Brooklyn, please. To the bar, thanks." She says to her driver, settling in for a long drive.

When she arrives at Niylah's bar, the lights are on. She lets out a breath of relief, and goes to the door, her guard waiting idly by the car. There's yelling when she approaches, and immediately she beckons Miller, her guard. She opens the door and is greeted by glasses crashing. Miller pushes in front of her, his hand resting on his holstered gun.

"Niylah?" She asks, voice high and wary.

When she walks in, it's simultaneously exactly what she feared and nothing like what she expected. A man has his hands bunched around Niylah's shirt collar, and there are glasses shattered on the floor, barstools flipped over and tables knocked over. Bruises bloom across Niylah's face and blood drips from an open cut near her hairline and her split lip. She tries to push past Miller, which in retrospect, is dumb, and impossible because he's got half a foot and at least a hundred pounds on her. 

"What the fuck is going on?" She asks insistently.

"Let her go," Miller says at the exact same time.

Niylah looks over, sad and defiant, blonde hair mussed. Clarke feels anger tense her shoulders. The man releases her and Niylah shoves away from him quickly. Miller dials 911, walks the man out of the bar.

"What happened here?" Clarke says, instantly moving close and hands fluttering over Niylah's face gently, not sure where to rest her fingers.

"Nothing important." Niylah replies, one shoulder moving up in an apparent shrug.

"Fuck off," Clarke says, getting riled up and gesturing around her. "That's not nothing."

"Look, people know I'm seeing you and got a little angry."

Clarke gapes at her.

She purses her lips and looks away. "It's nothing I can't handle, and I'll deal."

"Like hell you will!" Clarke runs her hands through her hair and kicks at a barstool in frustration. "You're being roughed up by, what, the fucking mafia or some shit- don't even deny it, that guy was no random man off the street!"

"Clarke-"

"No, you're not putting yourself in danger for-" She groans. "Listen. I'll repay any damages done, but I have to go. I am not letting you get hurt by anybody just because you're seeing me. Don't protest - I'm a doctor. Knowingly putting people in harm's way is in direct opposition to everything I believe in. I just can't."

Niylah reaches out, mouth open to say something. She doesn't get the chance to.

Clarke shrugs off her touch and moves away. "This is for your own good, Niylah. It's safer for you." She moves towards the door and stops in front of it. "I - Be safe." She pushes out and ignores how Niylah calls out her name.

 

She turns to face the offender. Miller puts himself in front, just enough to be able to react before the man can reach her. The man stares at her, or more accurately, he glares down at her, as if she's brought the plague down upon the earth. And perhaps it's the fact that it feels so  _personal_ that she snaps. Maybe it's because Finn's dead and it's most likely her fault, maybe it's because beautiful Niylah's sitting in the bar, alone with her tears and the wreckage she now calls home. And maybe it's because she's always been like that.

She gets in his face, practically spits at him - this 6'5" hulking beast of a man. "What the  _fuck_ are you playing at? What do you gain from this? Nothing. Who are you working for?" Miller shifts at her side and tries to get in between them. She juts her chin out and looks the man in the eye, a challenge glinting in her eyes.

He doesn't say anything but shifts to shove his shoulder into hers.

Clarke makes a show of it. She tumbles to the floor. Hits her elbow on the ground, scrapes anything she can against the concrete. She moves her hand in a way she know will rip her stitches. She gets back up and snarls in his face. "You better start talking, because if not, you're going away for years on multiple charges of assault and battery, and not to mention on all of the damages done to the bar over there. See him? Next to me? Army, honorable discharge, and he's a witness. No one will take anything you say seriously. See this?" She shoves her bloodied palm up. "This is what my lawyers are going to use to lock you up for so long that your family forgets about you while you rot. Talk."

He takes a step back, but that's all Clarke needs.

"Personal gain? Maybe a grudge against Niylah? Someone send you?" She gets in his face, watches what he does. "Is that it? Say, you look pretty uncomfortable. Maybe gang activity?" She sees him frown. "So that's it. Some gang war. Maybe a message to me? Message to the Upper East Side?"

He steps back again. "You won't get me to say anything." He says gruffly, deep voice rasping in his throat.

She scoffs. "I don't need anything from you anymore - you've given me plenty, so thank you. On behalf of everyone on the _Upper East Side_ , I thank you. I, Clarke Griffin, sincerely thank you for all the help you've presented us and wish you a pleasant minimum 20 years in prison. I hope you enjoy those coming years as well as your $10,000 fine." She blows him a kiss and moves to wait in the car.

When the police arrive to arrest him, Miller slides in the front seat and asks, "How did he help you? What did you get from him?"

She snorts. "He gave me next to nothing, but he doesn't need to know that."

A rare smile graces Miller's face.

She curls her hands into fists, and throws rational thinking out the window when she tells the driver to bring her to a record shop. She's too busy riding the momentum of her angry and pain to think it through, too busy feeling her knuckles itch with anger to remember her bleeding heart.

* * *

Clarke forces herself into the dingy little record shop in a haze of fury, not ever considering the fact that there could be other people milling around the shop. There are, but most of the people who are digging through the records elect to ignore the moody way she entered, and the somber black dress she has on. She vaguely remembers Bellamy asking about this exact scenario, but everything that happened with Finn and Niylah have driven her to this point, and she knows that somehow Lexa is connected to it. (She ignores the part where it's more about her than it is about Lexa.) She prowls through the shelves, going through the motions of looking through the various records lined up in front of her, eyes never leaving the shadowy frame in the room behind the counter.

It'll kill her. It'll kill her if she hears that she's the common denominator. But it will kill her if she doesn't hear it from Lexa herself. Damned if you do, damned if you don't. So all she can resolve is to bring Lexa down with her. (She doesn't stop to ponder what happens if Lexa isn't involved. She's never been wrong about these things.)

Her dress is probably worth more than this entire shop. Her hair is tousled, waves flowing out freely from where it was originally coiffed neatly. Her eyeliner and mascara are smudged. Her left hand is still bleeding through the bandage taped on, and various scrapes and bumps litter her person. For all intents and purposes, she looks like death. 

She doesn't blame Lexa for it when she walks out of the backroom and freezes at the sight of her. She maintains eye contact and continues to rifle through the records and wait as people slowly trickle out. It's a long time, made even longer by how she refuses to break eye contact with Lexa.

When the last person pays up front at the counter, and makes their way out, Clarke moves to follow them to the door.

"Wait." Lexa's voice rings out, clear as a bell, vaguely echoing around the empty store, but gentle as always. 

Clarke keeps moving towards the door, and sees Lexa move around the counter and towards her in her peripherals. She shuts the door, locks it, and flips the sign from open to closed. "I'm not going anywhere," she replies sardonically.

Lexa stops moving.

She methodically closes the blinds, ignoring Miller's glare from outside. The store is completely silent, excepting the creaking of the floorboards and shuddering of the blinds as Clarke's heels tap out an ominous rhythm.

Neither of them speak, even when Clarke is satisfied by the half closed blinds and turns to face Lexa.

"What are you here for, Clarke?" Lexa says carefully, lips closing harshly around the last syllable of her name. She moves slowly towards where Clarke is standing, near the door and in the narrow walkway in front of the counter. Her hands alternate between closing and opening, and she takes care to move as if edging towards an animal she knows will bolt at a sudden movement.

(Clarke thinks later that perhaps it was not the exact movement used around a jumpy animal, but rather the caging of a predator who may strike at a moment's notice.)

"What do you think?"

Lexa closes the distance between them and faces her dead on, never flinching or faltering in her wary appraisal. "What I think matters less than what you say."

"Why'd you do it, Lexa?" Clarke asks, whisper soft.

Lexa's eyebrows knit together in grief - she thinks - and her eyes close for a brief moment. Clarke looks into her eyes hungrily, roams the lines of her face, as if Lexa will say something like  _it wasn't me_ _, what are you talking about_ \- as if the contours and planes of Lexa's face will tell her all she needs to know about her innocence, as if she can move on from this knowing that Lexa was not the catalyst that set this series into motion, but she doesn't see any of that. What she does see is the resignation she saw on the man's face earlier, sees her own guilt mirrored back tenfold, and lines of grief that mar her smooth complexion.

It blinds her for a hot second. Clarke can only blindly stare as her vision swims and Lexa's features blur in front of her eyes.

"I didn't have a choice," comes the hesitant reply. Lexa searches right back, eyes flitting across Clarke's face, searching for a type of forgiveness she has long given up on finding.

"You didn't have a choice? You  _did_ _n't_ have a  _choice_?" Clarke spits back in disbelief. "You literally had  _no_ choice? There was a gun pressing into your fucking temple? No. You know who didn't have a choice? Finn, when that car hit him. Niylah, when that  _thug_ came to rough her up. Nowhere left for them to go. You don't get to say you didn't have a choice the same way I don't get to."

"Is that why you're here? To yell at me again?" Lexa asks, eyes hard.

" _No_ ," Clarke chokes out, tears suddenly welling. "I came here because I wanted you to tell me it was a misunderstanding. I wanted you to be as uninvolved as possible. I wanted to be  _wrong_ about this, because I am so _sick and tired_ of being angry at you. I'm tired of thinking of Finn and feeling like we killed him. I am _so_  exhausted, Lexa. I am so tired of having death continually peek out from behind my shoulder, I am so tired of watching everyone who ever mattered to me die in front of my eyes. I'm at rock bottom, Lexa, and I just wanted solace from _you_ , because you get it in a way no one up there will." She chokes back a sob. "I wanted  _you_ like I've never wanted anything else. It feels like something is gripping my heart - and maybe it's way too early - but I feel a literal, physical _pain_ when I try to hate you. And yet, if I don't hate you, I have to hate myself or lose my sanity - what do I do, Lexa? What can I have if I can't have you?"

 Lexa feels a breath leave her, and feels all her fight, all her self-righteous anger, all inklings of doubts leave her. She feels raw, and boneless, and  _weak_ in a way she has not felt in a long time. There is nothing left to do but sink down to her knees, and look up in a daze. Clarke's pretty tears and oceanic eyes bore into her, make her light-headed like she hasn't eaten for  _years_. She looks at Clarke and sees  _salvation_ spelled out in front of her. Light beams out through the blinds and from behind Clarke's shoulder, and it blinds her, sears a white spot into her vision, but she can't tear her eyes away from Clarke.

Clarke looks down, one hand clapped over her mouth to muffle any sobs that may escape her, and  _looks,_ just stares hungrily, burns the color of Lexa's green-grey eyes being illuminated by the harsh afternoon sun into her mind, imagines leaves in winter, imagines Lexa in winter, in different seasons, but always by her side, and something breaks, feels wells of forgiveness spring forth. But it's too early, too fast, too pathetic, currently. But perhaps it is not too early to seek comfort by her side. She offers her hand to Lexa.

Lexa looks at her hand, takes it and holds on to it like it's a lifeline, and she's drowning. She stands and crowds herself into Clarke, stands inches away, waits for Clarke to close the eternities between them.

 

And close them she does. Clarke crushes her frame into Lexa's, breathing in, and feels Lexa's arms snake around her in an embrace. She feels her shake in her arms, feels the rough cloth of Lexa's shirt press into her nose as she inhales, smells laundry detergent and musk and breathes it in like she would a breath of fresh air. And maybe, just by a little bit, things begin to shift back into place, and not everything seems as wrong. She moves her hands to cup at Lexa's face, and presses her lips to her's.

It's tender and ungraceful and everything in between, and Lexa has tears running down her face and Clarke can taste a tang of salt in the kiss, but it's feeling of being back that's so  _perfect_ and heartbreaking. She laughs into the kiss, just a breathy, watery chuckle, barely north of a sigh, and presses her lips in again, feels noses press against cheeks, and feels Lexa grip so tightly at her waist. Lexa kisses like she's scared that Clarke will change her mind, savors every movement, worships the feeling of Clarke's breath fanning across her cheek, warm and real. Kisses her like she's repenting, kisses like she wants to offer everything up to Clarke.

She feels the rush of  _maybe_ and  _almost_ and leaves them for  _definitely_ , feels Lexa's lips against hers and thinks to herself that she's never going to let go.

And maybe it's too early for Clarke to say things like that, but they have time to work around that.

It's not forgiveness and Lexa knows that, but it's a promise for maybe someday, and right now, that's good enough for her. 

They break apart and Clarke leans her forehead against Lexa's lightly, arms around her neck, anchoring herself to Lexa, eyes half-open.

Lexa keeps her eyes closed, afraid she'll wake to find it was a dream if she opens them. "You have me, Clarke. You have me. I'm not going anywhere," she breathes out, mouth trembling, fear and exhilaration pumping through her veins. She feels tears burn their way down her cheeks, first hot then cold, feels herself tremble in the best kind of disbelief possible.

Clarke only half-laughs and half-sobs, and it definitely sounds like a promise to Lexa.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello hello hello!
> 
> Y'all know the drill, so feel free to talk to me on my [tumblr](http://nxneteens.tumblr.com)! Not a lot of people do, but I'd love to change that. Keep in mind, I'm always here if you need someone to talk to, especially after that last episode. Originally, this chapter was on track for being more angsty, but my heart honestly couldn't take it after what happened earlier, so instead I leave you with the theme of remembering the good times, instead of remembering a loss.
> 
> Not sure who really reads my end notes, but hey, either way, here's a shoutout to [alyciadorknamcarey](http://alyciadorknamcarey.tumblr.com) (elise/hcdalcxa) who I've recently been talking to on tumblr because I'm a great big stalker who will hunt people down and pester them on tumblr. She graciously agreed to read this chapter despite the [devastating] episode that just aired. Thank you, as always, for your love and support. Stay strong guys, I love you all x


End file.
